To Defy a King (35 page)

Ida's condition worsened and by the following day she had a raging fever and was out of her wits, babbling about events in the past that only she could see. Taking her turn at the sickbed, Mahelt was a witness to the unhealing grief in Ida's soul caused by having to give up her baby son when she left court to marry Roger of Norfolk. 'Please, please don't do this, sire, give him to me!' Ida wept, beside herself, her brown eyes fogged like murky water. 'I beg you. I shall die!'

Mahelt laid a soothing hand on Ida's brow. 'Hush, it's all right.' She swallowed a tight lump in her throat. 'He is a fine grown man with children of his own - your grandsons.'

'But my baby is lost . . .' Ida struggled to sit up. 'I have to see the King. I have to take William with me, I'm his mother!'

Mahelt murmured gentle words over and over in a shushing tide. 'Don't worry. He's coming to you; all will be well, all will be well.'

Ida fell weakly back against the pillows and closed her eyes. Tears leached from under her lids. Moments later she began to speak instead of a loving moment she imagined she was sharing with her husband - sitting in his lap, feeding him morsels of toasted bread. Mahelt couldn't envisage Ida and the Earl in such an intimate scene. It was the kind of thing that she and Hugh would do and that her father-in-law would frown upon if he saw them. Her own eyes stung with grief.

Hugh put his head round the door. 'How is she?'

Mahelt shook her head. 'She has a high fever and is rambling. The physician has bled her and says to moisten her lips with honey and water and let her sleep. Father Richard is saying prayers for her and has asked for the intercession of Saint Adelard.'

Hugh came to the bedside. 'We take her too much for granted,' he said, looking at his mother with concern. He stooped and gently pushed back the grey frizz at Ida's temples. 'When I was little, her hair was dark and shiny and scented with nutmeg,' he said. 'I remember playing with her braids when she held me on her knee.'

Ida turned her head towards him and licked her dry lips. 'My love,' she croaked, 'my dear, dear love.'

'Your father should be here,' Mahelt said crossly.

Hugh looked uncomfortable. 'He has been busy holding all together.'

'He has been busy avoiding her,' Mahelt retorted. 'He expects us to run the household and see to matters and not disturb him. Your mother is his wife, not a chair or a table existing for his convenience.'

Hugh looked appalled. 'He doesn't feel like that. Indeed, he does not!'

'Then where is he? I have not seen him in here beyond a passing glance, and your mother is very sick indeed.'

Hugh went very still. 'Is she . . . Will she . . . ?' He left out the portentous word as if by not saying it he could fend off its shadow.

'I do not know.' Tears pricked Mahelt's eyes. 'She is like canvas that can withstand the rigours of the weather, but will rot if stored away and neglected. I will do what I can for her; she is a second mother to me.'

'I'll speak with my father.'

She cast him an angry look. 'You should not have to. He should be here of his own accord.'

'Perhaps he thinks she is in good hands and does not realise how sick she is.'

'That is what I mean; he has not noticed.' Mahelt wasn't just indignant for Ida; she was afraid of what the future might hold for herself and Hugh.
Ne
vus sanz mei, ne mei sanz vus.
What if it wasn't true?

'I am not so sure. It is just that he has a different way of dealing with matters.' He sat down on the coffer at the bedside. 'I will stay with her awhile if you have things to attend to.'

Mahelt hesitated, but there was indeed still far too much to arrange for the King's arrival - because it wasn't only the King, it was his full entourage and everyone would have to be found sleeping places suitable to their rank. She stood up and pointed to the bowl and spoon by the bedside. 'Moisten her lips with honey and water and call the women if you have need.'

Hugh looked slightly pained. 'I think I can manage,' he said.

Mahelt kissed the top of his head and departed to her business, the first item being a word with her father-in-law, whatever his manner of dealing with matters was. She found him in his chamber, busy with his constable, William Lenveise, discussing matters pertaining to the security of the castle.

He broke off to look at her, his expression one of impatient enquiry.

'The Countess has been asking for you, my lord father,' Mahelt said, curtseying and adopting a modest demeanour, although she felt like stamping her feet.

The Earl waved a dismissive hand. 'I have matters more pressing than attending a sickbed just now.'

Mahelt kept her voice at a reasonable pitch. 'I know you are busy, sire, but surely you could spare a minute before or after dinner. The Countess would be much cheered to see you.'

He gave her a warning look from weathered sea-grey eyes. 'Do you tell me my business, daughter?'

Mahelt dug her fingernails into her palms. 'No, Father. I came to you without expectation.'

He fiddled with the brim of his hat and drew it down over his brows. 'I doubt she will know me if she is raving with fever.'

'She will feel your presence, sire, and I think she knows you very well.'

He gave a grunt. 'I shall see,' he said, 'but I make no promises.'

Mahelt curtseyed and went on her way. She had done what she could; the rest was upon his conscience. She would have been angry with him for his indifference, save that just for a moment she had glimpsed something unutterably sad and lost in his gaze before he drew his hat brim low and turned back to his business.

Roger hesitated outside his wife's chamber. Damn the girl, damn her. He had better things to do than visit a sickroom. He had been placating his conscience by ensuring Ida had the best nursing care from her women, the best treatment from a renowned physician, and the spiritual comfort of their chaplain. Keeping an eye on her welfare from a distance meant he did not have to burden himself with worrying about her on top of everything else.

But now Mahelt had pricked him through the barriers he had built up. 'I do not have the time,' he muttered to himself, and realised that these words had dogged his marriage down more than thirty years.

Drawing a deep breath, he opened the door. Hugh looked up at him from the bedside.

'That troublesome wife of yours said your mother was asking for me,' Roger growled like an accusation as he reluctantly approached Ida's supine form.

'I was going to tell you, but obviously Mahelt reached you first,' Hugh said with a rueful look. 'Mother is sleeping now and she seems a little cooler than she was.'

'What did she want of me?'

Hugh gave his father a steady stare. 'Just you,' he said.

Roger sat on a stool opposite Hugh and, for the first time in several days, really looked at his wife. The fight with fever had stripped her face of flesh and it was like staring at a delicate bird skeleton lying there against the bolsters. Once she had been a bright little robin, busy with all of her babies, nurturing and caring for them. Now she was as fragile as last year's bones in an empty nest. And her mate? Her mate no longer existed because he had not remained a robin, but become an eagle. He steeled himself to take her hand in his and felt how thin and frail it was. Like a claw. She stirred and a frown crossed her brow.

'I am here,' he said. 'You have me.'

Her eyes remained closed, but she squeezed his hand and whispered his name. In a while her breathing deepened and she slipped into her first proper sleep since falling ill. He watched the light rise and fall of the covers, then he carefully withdrew his hand from beneath hers. 'I will come and see you again,' he said. 'When you are awake.'

He left the room, forcing himself to maintain a measured tread when all he wanted to do was flee. Once outside, he leaned against the wall, his eyes closed and his breathing ragged. Hugh followed him out and touched his arm.

'Sire?'

'I did not know she was so sick,' Roger said numbly.

'She has often been ill in the past when a crisis strikes and I thought some of her ailment was crying wolf . . . you know how she can be.'

Hugh nodded because he did, but he knew too that this time it was more than a fit of the vapours. 'Mahelt says she is a little improved.'

Roger grimaced. 'I shall pray for her and have prayers said in vigil.' He turned towards the stairs, each step away from the chamber a small relief, but also filled with guilt. 'She will not be well enough to greet the King,' he said to Hugh, who was following on his heels. 'That much is obvious, even if she does improve over the next two days.' He removed his hat and ran his hand around the felted brim. 'Is your wife capable of all that is required? I need to know that I can rely on her.'

Hugh drew himself up. 'She will not let you down,' he said. 'I know she will not.'

His father frowned. 'She is of Marshal stock, ordering and organising are in her blood; but she is unpredictable, and I do not want any untoward behaviour while the King is here. He will be looking for anything that he might consider insurrection.'

'She knows what is at stake,' Hugh said. 'Just as much as we do.'

Roger gave his son a dark look. 'Let us hope she does,' he said.

By the time John's arrival drew nigh, Ida was beginning to recover. She was as weak as a kitten but her fever had abated and she was able to sit up and take light nourishment. Mahelt visited her soon after dawn on the day the King was due and watched her drink a cup of buttermilk and eat a small piece of soft white bread. A warm shawl of fringed green silk was tucked around her shoulders over her chemise and her combed and braided hair lay in a neat, thin plait on her breast.

'I am sorry,' Ida said. 'It was my place to do all that has been laid upon you.

It should be my burden.'

'You have nothing to be sorry for,' Mahelt replied stoutly. 'Sickness strikes where it will. You are in the best place here. I have managed all that has been asked and I can fend for myself.'

'You are a good daughter to me' - Ida gave a tired smile - 'even if you are sometimes hard to hold. But your spirit is one of your best qualities.' She reached her free hand and took Mahelt's. 'I am proud of you and what you are becoming . . . what you will become, even if I am not here to see it.'

Her throat tight, Mahelt leaned to kiss Ida's temple. 'You will see it,' she said fiercely.

'Ah, well, that is as God will decide.' Ida sipped the buttermilk and watched the maids build up the fire and open the shutters to let the weak winter light filter in through the thick window glass. 'The Earl is fond of you too, you know,' she said. 'In his own way.'

Mahelt smoothed the bolster under her hand and diplomatically said nothing.

She didn't think 'fond' was the right word. They tolerated each other. She knew he had been to visit his wife after her prompting, because Hugh had told her, but the Earl himself had not spoken of it, and since then had kept his distance even more than usual. If there were any warm feelings at all between them, then they were bound up in the children; in the fact that she had borne two healthy, bright little boys to guarantee the earldom's future. It was only with them that she saw his softer side. He would sit his namesake grandson in his lap and patiently teach him to tie a particular kind of knot, or show him how to feed a treat to a horse with his palm flat so that his small fingers wouldn't be nipped. Her sons were where they met on common ground. But Hugh was a battlefield, as were their different notions of what constituted moral and appropriate behaviour.

Mahelt rose to her feet. 'I should go and change my gown,' she said, making a face. Before leaving, she fetched Ida's sewing basket to the bed and plumped up the bolsters and pillows.

Ida delved in the basket and brought out the small pair of socks on which she had been working before she took ill. Fashioned in two shades of green silk, they were intended for her youngest grandson and the task did not take much concentration, being just a repetition of loops with needle and thick thread.

'Good fortune, my daughter,' she said. 'And keep your wits about you.'

'Oh, my wits are going to stick closer than my shadow today, I promise you,' Mahelt replied with steely resolution. 'He won't get the better of me.'

As she left Ida to her sewing in her warm, light chamber, Mahelt felt the weight of responsibility drop on to her shoulders like a lead cope. She was both Bigod and Marshal and had the reputations of the two families to uphold. It didn't prevent her from imagining putting poison in John's dinner.

To have him enter here and not leave. To rid everyone of this tyrant. She had to make a concerted mental effort to push such notions to one side and focus instead on being the perfect hostess to a man she loathed.

Her best gown was of a ruby silk damask that enhanced the lithe lines of her body whilst still being demure. She didn't favour the low necks of the French court, and great dangling sleeves just got in the way, so hers were a modest length, and trimmed without fuss in a contrasting shade of rich blue entwined with garnet beads and gold thread.

'The colour won't show blood,' Mahelt said to Hugh only half in jest as she smoothed the dress over her body and turned to him. As Ida's proxy, she was wearing the jewelled coronet of the Countess of Norfolk, and she could almost feel the power flowing down through her body from the filigreed goldwork and sapphires.

Hugh snorted and shook his head. 'He won't tarry beyond a night unless we have heavy snow. Just pray the weather holds good for travelling.' He glanced towards the open shutters where the sky showed plenty of blue between grubby fleeces of cloud.

Mahelt tried to bite her tongue but she couldn't; there was too much pressure. 'I know it is our duty to play host, and that there are important matters to discuss. I know we should consider ourselves honoured, but he will pick fault with everything, and I cannot bear to think of him running his eyes over our possessions, judging how much we have and what he can seize

- assessing our defences too and imagining how he could take us. I don't want him here looking at us - looking at our boys.'